Chapter 15 #2
“The pleasure’s mine,” Lark says, clearly amused by his shameless flirting. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Jack.”
“All terrible things, I’m sure,” Luca laughs. “I apologize in advance for anything this one has told you about me. Most of it is lies designed to make himself look better.”
“Actually, he speaks very highly of you,” Lark says, and I can see the mischief in her eyes. She leans forward and drops her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Though he did mention you cheat at poker and owe him money from last season.”
Luca throws his head back and laughs, a full belly laugh that makes people around us turn to look. “Only because he can’t accept losing gracefully! And I don’t owe him money, we have a disagreement about whether that last hand counted.”
“It counted,” I say firmly.
“We’ll never agree,” Luca says, waving his hand dismissively before looking between us with open curiosity. “So how did you two meet? Jack never tells me anything anymore.”
“We grew up in the same town,” I say, sticking to our rehearsed story. “Reconnected recently since I’ve been home for the summer.”
“Ah, childhood sweethearts reunited,” Luca says. “This is like a movie, no? Very sweet. Smart move, Jack. You finally got something right in your life. First good decision you’ve made all year.”
“See, that’s what I keep telling him,” Lark says, and I laugh. “Someone needs to keep his ego in check. It’s a full-time job but somebody has to do it.”
Luca looks at her with delight. “You and I are going to be very good friends, Lark. Finally someone who understands how insufferable he can be.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, then his expression turns more serious as he looks back at me.
“So, I must know, how are the contract talks actually going? Any real progress with the team? The paddock rumors are flying around like crazy, but you know how reliable those are.”
I shrug, trying to appear casual. “Getting there slowly. Thomas is optimistic about the meetings this week. Today should help. Show my face, remind everyone I clean up well and know how to play the corporate game without causing international incidents.”
“Davis was P14 in the last race,” Luca adds with a pointed look, lowering his voice slightly. “Team’s not happy about his performance. There’s talk in the garage.”
“Their mistake putting him in my seat,” I say, tapping my Ferrari lanyard against my leg. A nervous habit I can’t seem to break.
“Non è giusto,” he says, switching to Italian. “Meriti di essere là fuori.”
It’s not fair. You deserve to be out there.
I respond in the same language, having picked it up from years in Europe, driving for an Italian team. “Non ti contraddirò su questo. Ma devo ancora convincerli che la mia reputazione è nel passato.”
I won’t argue with you on that. But I still have to convince them my reputation is in the past.
Lark gives me a surprised look, her eyebrows raising. “You speak Italian?” she asks.
“Just enough to tell this guy to fuck off,” I reply with a grin. “And order beer. Most of the people working at Ferrari are Italian, plus spending most of my time with this guy…”
“He’s modest,” Luca interrupts. “He actually speaks it very well. Parla come un italiano quando è ubriaco.”
Lark shrugs at Luca, and I translate for her. “He said I speak like an Italian when I’m drunk.”
Lark looks at me, snorting. “Well, well, you’re full of surprises today. What else are you hiding? Can you juggle? Do magic tricks?”
I try not to look too pleased with her reaction. “I like to keep people on their toes. Maintain an air of mystery.”
“Next time you’re drunk I’ll have to test this theory,” Lark says, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Do you speak Italian? Dear God, I should be careful what I say around you,” Luca says with a laugh.
“No, no, but I speak Spanish and it helps me understand quite a bit of it,” Lark says, her eyes dancing between us. “Don’t worry, I heard nothing too incriminating. Your secrets are safe.”
“Oh, now I know not only are you too beautiful for him but too smart as well. Careful Jack, half the paddock will try and steal her away,” Luca says with a wink, and I feel a swell of pride as if she really is my girlfriend, as if this whole thing could be real for more than just a moment.
Before I can formulate a response, Thomas appears at my elbow like a ghost materializing from nowhere. “Jack, Autosport is ready for the interview. They’re set up in the media tent.”
“Duty calls,” I tell Luca with a resigned sigh. “Save me a beer for later? I’m going to need it after this.”
“Always, amico,” he promises, then turns to Lark with that charming smile. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“You too,” Lark says warmly.
The rest of the morning is a blur of handshakes, sponsor meetings, and carefully rehearsed answers to the same questions.
Yes, I’m focused on getting back in a race seat.
No, the incident in Monaco wasn’t what it appeared to be.
Yes, I’m more mature now, more dedicated.
No, I won’t comment on Davis’s recent performances (even though we all know he’s underperforming).
Through it all, Lark stays by my side, handling it like she was born for this world. She’s smart, engaging, makes people laugh with her quick wit. I find myself watching her when I should be focusing on the sponsors.
By early afternoon, we’ve done our mandatory rounds and watched the GT race from the Ferrari suite.
Lark’s enthusiasm was infectious throughout the race, her eyes bright with excitement.
During the final lap battle, she sprang to her feet when the Ferrari GT executed a perfect hairpin overtake, her drink splashing over her fingers as she let loose a cheer so unfiltered, so joyful, that I couldn’t help but grin like an idiot watching her instead of the race.
Something twisted in my chest watching her. This urge to keep her in my world longer than our September expiration date, to steal her away to more races, more cities, more of everything.
Back at the hotel, we have a couple of hours before the evening gala. We share the bathroom getting ready, but once I’m dressed in my tux, she shoos me out with a “I need space for all this,” gesturing to her array of makeup and hair products spread across the marble counter like a small pharmacy.
“How much space could you possibly need?” I ask, eyeing the arsenal.
“More than you can comprehend,” she says, physically pushing me toward the door. “Go. Drink something. Watch TV. Just be anywhere but here.”
“Bossy,” I say, but I’m grinning as she shuts the door in my face.
I pour myself a whiskey from the minibar and wait in the living area of our suite, scrolling through messages from Thomas about the day’s meetings. The bathroom door’s been closed for almost an hour when I finally hear it open. I look up.
Holy fuck.
Lark stands there in a deep blue dress that clings to every curve before flowing to the floor.
The front is elegant but shows just enough cleavage to make my heart race.
She grins, spinning slightly, and I see the back is almost entirely bare, a smooth expanse of her skin from her shoulders to just above the curve of her ass.
Her black hair is pinned up with a few strands falling loose, framing her face like art, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
I grip my glass a little tighter. My brain short-circuits with the vivid thought of walking across the room, picking her up and carrying her out to the balcony to fuck her right there against the railing, hotel neighbors and passing boats be damned.
“Jack?” Her voice snaps me back to reality. “Is it too much?”
“No,” I manage, my voice thick. I clear my throat, trying to get blood back to my brain instead of other regions. “You uh… you look incredible.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks. “You don’t look half bad either,” she says. “Very James Bond.”
“We should go,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. If we don’t leave now, I’m going to do something stupid.
The glass elevator descends, giving us a view of Miami at night—city lights stretching into the distance, the water beyond reflecting the moon like scattered diamonds.
The lobby is still crowded despite the hour, and more than a few appreciative glances follow Lark as we cross the marble floor toward the exit.
The heat hits us immediately as we step outside.
Miami’s night air is still warm and heavy even after sunset.
A valet in a black vest is already waiting at the curb with a low, impossibly sleek Ferrari in glossy black, engine idling like it is alive.
He steps forward the second he sees me, offering the key fob with both hands.
“Mr. Midnight,” he says. “Your car is ready.”
Lark blinks. “Your car?”
“Loaner from the team for the weekend,” I tell her, trying not to sound smug. “All my cars are in Monaco right now, so Ferrari set me up with this while we’re in Miami.”
Her eyes move over the car, taking in the badge and the carbon fiber. It’s so low to the ground it barely looks street legal. I open the passenger door for her and offer my hand so she doesn’t catch her dress on the door sill. She lets out a laugh.
“You are actually serious,” she says. “I’m getting into a Ferrari to go to a gala in Miami. This is full James Bond.”
“Please,” I say. “Bond wishes he had this car.”
She laughs, sliding into the leather seat. “I cannot believe this is real.”
I walk around to the driver’s side and drop in. The cabin smells like leather and heat, and the engine note settles into my chest the way it always does. I ease us out from the hotel portico and onto the street.
Miami at night opens up in front of us. The streets are wide and lit with neon—blues and pinks reflecting off the wet pavement from an earlier rain. Palm trees line the boulevard, their fronds catching the colored light. I downshift and the engine snarls, the sound filling the cabin.
“So, remind me who’s hosting this shindig?” Lark asks.